


Mixed Signals

by chiptease



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Awkward Flirting, Awkward Romance, Elias and Peter are awkward teenagers, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, I just want them to be happy, Lots of friendship in this fic as well, M/M, Martin thinks jon being an ass is charming, Pining, Slow Burn, Thank you jonny for these characters, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, self indulgence fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-04-11 20:56:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19117552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chiptease/pseuds/chiptease
Summary: It's the end of senior year, and Martin Blackwood is more than happy to tie up the loose ends as he readies himself for university. There's just one more part of his life left unfinished.





	1. In the same boat

The nose was off.

 

It was squashed on its side, and Martin’s attempts to salvage it with a few well-placed highlights had failed. He knew that using charcoal wasn’t going to be perfect, but he couldn’t help the tug of discontentment as he studied his work for the day. Frowning, he decided it was tomorrow’s issue, and wiped his brow. He’d fallen into a bit of a trance, and glanced at the clock overhead. He swore under his breath. 

 

15:07. Well, shit. He was late, once again - no surprises there.

 

Fumbling for his portfolio, he tucked the piece into the mouth of the tattered folder. Honestly, Martin didn’t know how he’d managed to keep it for the entire semester, with his horrible curse of losing things the moment he touches them. 

 

In a flurry of blackened fingertips, rustled papers, and a well-placed toe stub, he’d gotten his materials squared away and his bookbag organized enough to stumble out the door. 

 

The hallways had that lingering blanket of finals-haze to them, with pimpled faces downcast and grimaces at the thought of the oncoming workload of next week. Martin distantly remembered his anticipation when his education fed into secondary school, and the excitement that ran through him at the thought of being an adolescent. He supposed he’d been spoiled with too many novels of risque and romance in his youth. He wasn’t in the running for prom royalty, wasn’t a jock or a student body star, and hadn’t met some dark haired sweetheart by knocking his books to the floor from a perfectly-timed shoulder catch. Not to say he wasn’t happy, of course - Martin cherished his close friends far more than he would many acquaintances, and was happy in his position of the consecutively elected secretary on the school’s council.

 

However, he reckoned, he did have a dark-haired boy he was eyeing for candidacy, so perhaps all wasn’t lost for him yet.

 

 _Jonathan Sims,_ he heard Tim sigh dreamily in his poor impression of him. Martin almost laughed as he thought of the scenario his twelve-year-old self might have fantasized about. If he’d knocked into Jonathan Sims and spilled his books, all he would have gotten in return would have been an irritated glare and a half-assed apology. Luckily, he’d met his friend through a literary club he suspected Jon had only joined for future university credibility. In fairness, Martin had only gone because Sasha had dragged him by the ear with demands that he expand his horizons, or whatever the hell that meant, so they were both terribly out of place.

 

And, Martin thought with a smile, perhaps that had just as much of a ‘fate-be-it-so’ quality as an accidental collision in the hallway. The helpless romantic hadn’t been properly wrung from his preteen self. 

 

Jon. Who he walks home with. Who was probably waiting for him, as usual. Because he was tardy, as usual. 

 

He hurried towards the old gnarled oak tree in front of their building, with Jon standing there with his arms crossed, looking impatient. 

 

Martin sighed. As usual.

 

“Yeah,” he said as he finished his short jog to his friend’s side, knowing Jon could easily launch into yet another tangent about how much of a mess his friend was. “You don’t need to say it.” Jon just grumbled something and waved a hand exasperatedly and turned to start walking once Martin joined him.

 

“What was that?”

 

“You have powder on your eyebrow,” Jon responded, and pointed to his own. “Left side.”

 

Martin licked his thumb and rubbed at the spot, and couldn’t find himself to be embarrassed after leaving whole shirts ruined with ink stains in his wake. He’s naturally clumsy enough, his mother once told him. Adding an array of artistic materials to that equation is like giving a drowning man a bucket of water.

 

“So, then, how was your day?” He ventured forward. Jon gave a thoughtful grimace.

 

“Oh. About as well as it could go at this time of year.” His bony fingers worried the strap of his bag as he spoke, a habit he’d practiced for as long as Martin had known him. “I haven’t gotten any news back from that Cambridge application, if that’s what you’re asking.”

 

“Don’t worry about it, Jon,” he said earnestly, knowing his friend's habit of overthinking simple nuances. “Nobody gets the news back right away, right? You still have weeks.”

 

“You don’t need to comfort me, I’ll be alright.”

 

Blunt and honest. Martin bit back a smile - he always had that brusque charm to him.

 

He put his hands in his pockets, and dug for a few sticks of gum. “We’re in the same boat, anyways,” Martin said, offering a piece to Jon, who took it. “Maybe I’m comforting myself.”

 

“Really?” Jon asked, evidently surprised. “I thought you didn’t end up applying to Cambridge.”

 

“Nah, I didn’t. But I turned in my final paper today to Mrs. Banks.” He clumsily unwrapped the gum and bit into it. “I meant the whole, uh, _SS. Waiting_  boat.”

 

Jon hummed, seemingly oblivious to the stupidity of Martin’s analogy. “Good luck with that,” he said. “I’ve heard she grades like a banshee.”

 

“I’m sure the application reviewers at Cambridge aren’t much more lenient.” 

 

“Oh, shut up,” Jon huffed, shouldering his bag. Martin just chuckled, which only seemed to deepen his scowl. “When I said you didn’t need to comfort me, I didn’t mean that as an invitation to antagonize me.”

 

“You’re not much better company, then, are you?” He could have sworn he saw Jon’s face color a bit at that. “When in Rome-”

 

“Alright, yes, perhaps I could have chosen something else to say there!” Jon snapped, now visibly embarrassed. His demeanor softened a bit as he watched Martin laugh, and he sighed. “Christ, Martin. Maybe you should be the one grading essays.”

 

“Well, your diction’s on par, that’s for sure.” Jon opened his mouth, undoubtedly about to defend what Melanie only could describe as his Victorian vocabulary, but Martin held up a hand. “I won’t, I won’t. You’ve had enough for today.”

 

“Yes, well, at least I don’t go around reading Wilde and Keats-”

 

“We’re at your house, Jon,” Martin cut in with a pointed look, knowing that his own cheeks were treacherously pink by now. “I’ll see you Monday?”

 

Jon gave him a lilting look, poorly masking a smile. “If you ever clean your glasses, then maybe you will,” he said, and turned down the driveway. He awkwardly waved goodbye as he opened his door, and walked inside. Martin just shook his head in affectionate exasperation before returning to his walk down the leafy backway path.

 

That was Jon, he supposed. Awkward in speech and lanky in practice. To say the boy was socially stunted was merciful. Bristling at friendliness for the sake of friendliness, recoiling from intimacy and trust, and substituting reliance to others with the writings of men many years dead.

 

His bubble snapped as he blew it, its citrus flavour already starting to fade flat. He sighed.

 

Martin was head over heels, and he fully well knew it.


	2. Turning Point

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about such a huge chapter delay! I've been in a bit of a creative funk, and was happy to get inspiration to help me back out of it.

Martin cleaned his glasses.

 

It was stupid, really, the effect Jon’s banter could have on him. A throwaway comment about his glasses shouldn’t have been anything notable, just a friendly jab at Martin’s happy-go-lucky approach towards his appearance. Yet here he was, rubbing the flecks and smudges away from the glass with his shirt, the words still ringing in his head. He remembered Jon’s expression as he said it, with such a particular look in his eye. It was, if Martin would be so bold, even akin to teasing.

 

Since when had Jon payed so much attention to his face that he’d noticed the state of his spectacles, anyways? He clearly had himself to worry about, with a tucked-in shirt every day, and freshly pressed slacks, and oh, he probably polished his belt buckle-

 

“Martin!” 

 

“Ah-” Martin started, shoving his spectacles back onto the bridge of his nose. “What? What is it?”

 

“I just lapped you,” Tim said slowly, looking pointedly at him. “Because you decided to give your lenses a clean in the middle of Toad’s Turnpike.”

 

Martin felt embarrassment prick at the back of his neck. “Sorry,” he muttered. Picking his controller back up, he accelerated his kart a few feet, only for the match to forcibly end.

 

Tim put a hand on his shoulder, and shook it playfully. “Your head’s been in the clouds all night, Blackwood. Something’s on your mind.”

 

Martin didn’t respond, and Tim flicked off the television and turned to face him. Martin felt sheepish. He hated to zone out on his friend like this, but his mind couldn’t seem to find traction in video games right then. 

 

“Is it school?”

 

“No, Tim. Really, it’s nothing-” 

 

“Nuh uh,” Tim said, and ignored Martin's sour expression. “If it’s enough to distract you from my incredible sleepover agenda, then it’s grave. Did a parent die?”

 

“What- no!”

 

“A pet? Relative?” 

 

“Nobody _died,_ Tim. Don’t be morbid.”

 

“Stricken with illness, then, is it?”

 

“No, you egomaniac,” Martin muttered, but couldn’t curb his smile. His best friend always had a way of making him laugh, no matter the circumstance, and now was no exception.

 

“Really,” he continued, waving Tim aside. “It’s nothing. Something rather stupid, actually.”

 

Tim raised an eyebrow. “So, let me run this by you. It’s nothing, but it’s also something, and something stupid, and something big enough to keep your attention off of our night off. Can I take an educated guess?”

 

Martin groaned, and slumped against Tim’s arm. “You don’t need to say it,” he said exasperatedly.

 

Tim chose to promptly ignore him, clasping his hands together and welling a dramatic, elongated sigh. “Is it _Jonathan Sims_?” he asked, voice adapting that special tone he saved for whenever Jon was brought up in the conversation. Martin shoved him.

 

“It’s stupid,” he said again, feeling his cheeks burn. “He told me to clean my glasses.”

 

“I can see it now,” Tim said, putting an arm around Martin and doing a grandiose sweep with his hand. “Oh, Martin, clean your glasses, wouldn’t you? And your shirt, it’s wrinkled. And your pants - oh, and your shoes, I could have sworn I saw a particle of dust on them-” 

 

“Shut _up,_ Timothy-”

 

“And while you’re at it, perhaps you could clean the inside of my mouth as well-” 

 

“That’s bloody well enough!” Martin gasped, and hit him over the head with a couch pillow. He scowled at the muffled laughter. “I don’t even know why I bother talking to you, honestly.”

 

“You can’t tell me that wasn’t what happened.”

 

“It absolutely wasn’t. He said it on our walk home.”

 

“So you snogged behind his house? That’s raunchy for him-”

 

Martin stood with a glare, and Tim straightened and grabbed his arm. “Alright, peace, peace. So you’re worried about what he thinks of your appearance?”

 

Sitting with a huff, he sank back into the plush of the couch. “Not exactly,” he confessed. “He’s seen me after art every day, it’s hardly that.”

 

“Then what?”

 

Martin glanced at his hands, and felt himself bite his lip. “I don’t know why he was looking so closely at my face to notice my dirty glasses to begin with.”

 

Tim looked at him for a moment, before his face lit up. “So you’re _finally_ admitting to yourself he might fancy you? After all this time?”

 

“No!” Martin snapped, suddenly feeling sheepish. “No, he just- I don’t know. He’s Jon, and I don’t even know how he swings.” 

 

“Between you and me, I rather think he pitches rather than-”

 

“Don’t even go there with the baseball innuendos, Stoker. I don’t want that kind of relationship with him, anyways.” 

 

Tim reached up to ruffle his hair. “You really are a hopeless romantic, huh?”

 

“I guess so.”

 

His friend hummed, and paused for a thoughtful moment. Jokes and tussle aside, Martin knew Tim always gave profound advice if he really thought on it. He trusted him - more than anyone - and knew that if all else failed, he could go to Tim. His chest felt warm as he watched his friend mentally assess the situation at hand. 

 

“You’re about to finish your final year, you know,” Tim finally said. “If you’re going to do anything, it’s best to do it now.”

 

Martin sighed quietly. “I know, I’ll… I’m trying to think of what to do.”

 

“Prom’s coming up, isn’t it?”

 

“Yes, but we’ve all agreed to go as a group, haven’t we?” Martin said hopelessly. He shook his head. “Besides, I could never do some grand proposal, he’d hate that. I don’t know how to make it clear to him.” 

 

“Why not just tell him you’d be interested in testing the waters?”

 

“It feels so awkward,” Martin said, wringing his hands a bit as he spoke. “I don’t know what I’d even suggest. A date?”

 

Tim opened his mouth, but Martin took his hand and squeezed it, not wanting to take any more time away from the two of them than he already had for that night. “I’ll think on it. Thank you, Tim.”

 

Tim met Martin’s small smile with a lopsided one of his own, and squeezed back. “You really are a helpless dork, you know.”

 

“Yeah,” Martin said, picking his controller back up. “I know. But I’m a dork who can mop the floor with you on Banshee Boardwalk.”

 

“Oh? Even while pining hopelessly?”

 

Martin let himself laugh at that, and relaxed as Tim turned the TV back on. 

 

“You bet."


	3. Stoker Initiative

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so late! I'll try to upload more regularly, I've just been having a creativity block as of late.

Tim, frankly, was at the end of his rope.

 

He loved Martin - really, he did - but he knew he could be as thick as cornmeal when the topic shifted to anything other than booksmarts. Martin was brilliant in his studies, for instance. Hell, Tim remembered the time when he’d stormed the religious history professor’s office with demands that they knock his friend’s mark up to an A, going as far as to shout that “God would have been lucky to have Martin Blackwood write the bible”, as the principal later reminded him. 

 

Yet, in that same week, he’d snatched Martin’s phone - only to find him reading a self-help article on deciphering romantic intention. 

 

Some preteen e-magazine on romance, when Tim was his best friend! To see Martin stoop so low had nearly broken his heart. He’d decided then to tunnel his feelings into progress, and plan to take what he liked to call the ‘Stoker initiative’. 

 

Now, that phrase was a controversial one, depending on who you asked. Tim personally believed the ‘Stoker initiative’ had taken him, many a time, down the path less travelled by in life - granted, it wasn’t exactly the scenic route. 

 

This time, it led him in the direction of a young man standing beneath an old tree. It was a lovely day, Tim noted. The sky was dotted with the thick cotton clouds you’d see on a child’s bedroom wall, and the warmth of the sun caressed his cheeks. The gentleness of a late May afternoon was one that made the grass gleam a little greener, and the birds sing just a bit louder. 

 

It also apparently made the sunbeams brighter, because Jon wore a deeper scowl than he usually did, holding a hand to shield his eyes as he scanned the crowd for Martin. Tim put on the best smile he could muster, and bounded over.

 

Jon’s eyes caught sight of his face, and Tim could have sworn he saw him begin to turn away, before seemingly sighing and straightening his notorious posture. Tim almost laughed - he knew he was an intimidating guy at first glance, but seriously, Jon needed to cut him some slack. It’s not like he’d met him yesterday.

 

“Hey, Jon, really sorry,” he said, clapping him on the shoulder when he reached him. This caused Jon to lurch forward, and Tim straightened him upright with a hasty apology. “Martin sent me to tell you that he can’t walk home with you today. Doctor’s appointment, he forgot about it.”

 

Jon squinted, studying his face. Tim beamed down at him. “Why didn’t he text me?” Jon muttered after a few moments, clearly irritated.

 

Tim sighed. “We’ve been friends for years, mate, I’m not trying to pull a fast one on you. He caught me on the way out. Running late, and all.”

 

He didn’t like to say he was _lying_ , exactly, just stretching the truth. Martin did tell Tim to relay the message on his way out of the school, and he was running late. That just happened to be a few hours ago, and Tim saw this as an opportunity to privately lock down Jon for more than a solemn nod in the hallway. 

 

“Anyway,” Tim ventured on before Jon could respond. “I agreed to walk you home in his place. My treat, fees waived.” 

 

Jon rolled his eyes without a trace of subtlety. “That’s quite alright-”

 

“My only request is no photography.”

 

Jon grumbled something and turned to start walking. Tim followed, still smiling widely. 

 

“Speaking of Martin,” Tim said, watching Jon’s expression closely. “He’s really been wanting to see this movie. Won’t shut up about it, really.”

 

“Hm.” 

 

“You know, I’d offer to go with him to put him out of his misery, but I was never really one for spooky stuff-”

 

“It’s called horror,” Jon cut in.

 

“Yeah, horror, then. You know how Martin is with that kind of stuff, though. Never wants to see it alone, so he always drags someone with.”

 

He looked at Jon expectantly. Jon just trudged ahead, before noticing him looking. “What?”

 

“Martin really wants to see this scary movie with someone,” Tim said slowly, thinking that maybe Jon hadn’t quite heard him properly. 

 

“Yeah, I know. You just said that.”

 

Maybe he still didn’t understand. “You know, _Sacreligious II._ The one in theatres right now.”

 

Tim went quiet, hoping Jon might continue that thought. He didn’t.

 

“Christ,” Tim muttered under his breath, before clearing his throat. “I think Martin would be really happy if you took him to go see it.”

 

Jon’s expression finally changed to one akin to surprise, and he glanced up at Tim. 

 

“Really?”

 

“Yeah,” Tim said, smile naturally stretching a bit wider. Jon’s head was denser than rock sometimes - he’d needed a drill for that one. “Definitely.”

 

They kept walking, and the topic was swept away in conversation. After a few minutes, they reached the ivy-bunched fence of Jon’s gate. He said his goodbyes to Tim, and as Tim turned away, he coughed.

 

“I’ll ask him if he’d like to see it, then,” Jon said quietly, and Tim felt his shoulders sag in relief. “Thanks for letting me know.”

 

Tim couldn’t help himself as he turned and ruffled his friend’s hair, only to be met with an immediate shove in the other direction as Jon started sputtering like every other time Tim did that. Tim, though, felt no remorse. Despite all of his prickles and painfully awkward shyness, he really could see what Martin fancied in his friend.

 

As he walked home in triumph, Tim reached over and patted himself on the back. Next time Martin tried to bash the 'Stoker initiative', he’d have to inform him of the good his power could do.

  
Because surely, _surely,_ even Jonathan Sims couldn’t misinterpret the concept of a movie date.

**Author's Note:**

> This is written set in an English high school, and I don't live in England and haven't attended schooling there. Please, someone correct me at any time if I write in an inaccuracy, and I'll try to fix it.


End file.
